21 guns
by jesicahazel
Summary: Sherlock stood in the crowd of black and stared at the casket. He didn't feel anything.   WARNINGS: post character death.


Sherlock stood in the crowd of black and stared at the casket. He didn't feel anything. He hadn't felt anything really from the moment that doctor (incompetent idiotic pathetic worthless waste of air and space) had come out of those white swinging doors. Sherlock, of course, had deduced the news he bore in seconds but it did nothing to soften the blow of absolute agony that came with his words.

"too much internal damage... force of blast... terribly sorry for your loss... nothing we could do."

Sherlock heard all of the facts but fazed out of prepositional phrases, only the things that were necessary were heard.

this was before the nothing. This is when the pain hit.

At first Sherlock thought it was a heart attack, or a stroke or an allergic reaction or maybe even an airborne poison created by Moriarty that caused ones internal organs to melt, their esophagus to explode and their tear ducts to mass produce saline. However when Lestrade came from behind him and placed a hand on his shoulder, his eyes also shinning with the assumed poison, Sherlock saw what was happening.

Anger, fear, loss and absolute, mind shattering, agonizing grief racked Sherlocks body, causing his knees to shudder and collapse. He fell, Lestrades hand moving to his shoulder to hold him upright.

this was most definitely not happening. His blogger, his john was not allowed to just die. The word caused Sherlock to flinch, mentally and physically. He couldn't be particularly sure, he was too distracted from the onslaught of emotion to be certain of anything at the moment, but he thought that Lestrades hand was shaking him... or maybe it was the other way around... Sherlocks chest was collapsing but some how he was still managing to make the most awful noises. Sherlock thought he might be crying. Funny that. He couldn't really feel anything other than his melted twisted insides.

_I will burn you. I will burn the heart out of you. _

Mission accomplished.

Sherlocks vision was blurred and somehow it had managed to turn gray, so he couldn't quite see when Lestrade heaved him up by his shoulders and turned him around to face him. His face was tired, worn, more wrinkled then Sherlock had ever seen it. His eyes swam with sadness and... fear. Fear? Sherlocks mind focused on this for a moment, his body still burning around him as his mind fought desperately for a distraction. There was no danger... why would Lestrade be afraid?

oh.

Sherlock imagined how his face must look. He thought about what the noises he was making must sound like to someone who's hearing wasn't roaring with the sound of _not here not here not here. _

"Sherlock?" Lestrades voice was dry and cracked in the middle, "Sherlock look at me."

He thought he had been. He tried focusing his eyes on Lestrades to give him some kind of assurance that he was paying attention, it no doubt looked like a glare.

"We need to get you out of here." Helpless, that was the word. Or maybe it was Hopeless. Sherlock didn't care.

He vaguely remembered being steered out of the hospital and into a black car with tined windows, Mycroft.

"Hello, little brother." Mycrofts voice held none of his usual contempt. Sherlock felt like he was nine again, back when they got along and Mycroft wold come home and give him one of the few hugs he ever received and call him his little brother.

Sherlock was lead (pushed) in the car and the door was shut behind him, the window rolling down.

"I trust you, Mycroft." Lestrade said, eyes still cloudy but more focused. "but just... look after him, will you?"

"Of course." The window was rolled up. Sherlock was glad of it, he was shivering, hands stuffed into his coat pockets (when had he put on his coat? he didn't remember putting on his coat.)

"Sherlock?" Mycroft didn't ask him questions... not any more. Sherlock heard the sliding of cloth against leather and the purr of an engine as they pulled away. Mycroft was now sitting next to him, his hand on his knee. "Are you okay?"

stupid stupid stupid stupid _fat _Mycroft.

"No." Sherlocks voice was a strained whisper, he was surprised it still existed considering the state of his trachea.

Mycroft put his arms around his broken little brother and suddenly he was nine again and everything was okay and John H. Watson did not exist.

then in just a moment he was back at 33 and nothing was okay and John H. Watson still didn't exist.

After that, Sherlock cried. He still doesn't think about it. All of the tears and not and hot saliva sobs, all into the lapel of Mycrofts three piece suit. Mycroft didn't complain. He stroked Sherlocks hair as he broke down ,deep groans of adult agony and wretched sobs, shaking his frame and then, quite suddenly, Sherlock was done crying.

Sherlock was done feeling.

Of course his insides were still melted, his throat crushed but his emotions were gone.

A week went by, old and crushed, and Sherlock still felt nothing and Mrs. Hudson puttered about as he sat in his chair and stared at all the empty space left behind in Johns chair and still felt noting.

Mrs. Hudson had tried to clear johns things away. His jumper, still hanging on the back of a kitchen chair, his laptop still on the edge of the coffee table, last case half written up. His much, 3/4th filled will week old tea now covered with a cap of mold. Sherlock had felt something for the first time in a week (panic, terror, anger) and had yelled at Mrs. Hudson who had cried for the 3rd time that day and run downstairs.

Harry wanted Sherlock to write the eulogy.

Sherlock said no.

Harry had paused, her voice broke and she hung up half way through "okay."

Mycroft and Lestrade came to collect him on the day of the funeral.

"Jesus, Sherlock," Lestrades eyes were wide and fearful. Sherlock must look like a ghost, he must, he felt like one, translucent. "Have you even showered?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He looked at the case file (cold, still interesting) Lestrade had given him a few days ago. He didn't want to talk anymore (and he definitely didn't do any more leg work) he preferred to test only. Move minimally. Smoke regularly. No cocaine. John would hate him for that.

He had thought of it briefly and the ghost of Johns memory reared its head, suddenly, that calming voice found its way back into his head, angry and firm and commanding. The ghost shook its head as he stood behind his chair, hands holding the top as he did when we was disappointed in Sherlock.

"God, Sherlock, you're doing bad enough as it is, if you go there I will never forgive you."

logic spoke to Sherlock. John was dead. He was incapable of being angry. He was incapable of forgiveness.

Sherlock didn't wan to take the chance. He left the cocaine.

The ghost of John smiled and left. He hadn't come back.

"Let me take care of this." Mycroft heaved his brother up by his armpits, his tone pitying and more than a little impatient. "You get the suit."

Mycroft had washed him. Sherlock didn't care, he just stood there.

"You could make an effort you know." Mycrofts voice held just the hint of a desperate plea, just a whisper of worry. "John would want you to at least try."

Mycroft didn't understand. He _was _trying.

John had been a war hero. This fact had escaped Sherlock. He knew, of course, but he had never really thought about it. He didn't see John Watson the army doctor, he saw John Watson His doctor who just happened to used to be in the army which just happened to make him very useful.

More than useful eventually, necessary.

He hadn't expected a military send off. The playing of the anthem, the flag, the badges that were placed on Johns lapel.

Sherlock had seen a thousand dead bodies, hell, he had seen the insides of dead people and had delighted in it.

He couldn't look at Johns.

He got close enough to see the uniform and then realized that this wasn't John. This wasn't something he could see. Sherlock stumbled back down and away from the casket. Lestrade had caught his elbow and kept him upright.

"Its okay Sherlock." He brought him back to his spot in the church. "You don't have to see that."

The service was dull. Mike Stamford had spoken about a John Sherlock didn't care about. A buddy to have a pint with, a good man, a good brother. Not the man he trusted with his life, his blogger, his John. Sherlock stopped listening when the pastor went up to speak nonsense of Johns dead body. He studied his hands. He felt nothing.

Harry had asked if Sherlock had wanted to carry the casket and he said yes. He didn't know why. He just wanted to carry John one last time. John had carried him so many times he just... well he needed to.

So he did, with Lestrade behind him and Mycroft in front of him they marched to the cemetery outside. They placed him on a silver metal contraption that would lower him into the ground. Sherlock felt panic starting to crawl up from his ruined organs. He would be gone. He was having a hard time standing back up from his crouched position were he set John down.

"Greg?" Mycroft prompted, grabbing one of Sherlocks elbows.

Lestrade grabbed the other and together they lead Sherlock to the crowd. Familiar faces, all reconstructed with the emotions of pity and sadness stared back at him, Sally, Anderson, Shara, Molly. No one mattered. Not right now.

They lowered him down, casket disappearing and suddenly Sherlock felt the need to run after it, pull it out and never lose sight of it. He felt the need to collapse and wail and not give a damn what others thought of it. He felt the need to pry open his ribcage and spill his twisted melted organs out here where at least he would be rid of them. He did none of these things. He stood there silently shivering between his brother and the only person he could now call a friend.

They fired 21 shots.

And Sherlock felt every one of them.


End file.
